


veritas

by Lapifors



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Attempts at diplomacy, Corruption, Curses, Each Anderson may permit only one curse per person, Multi, Scandal, Sleeper Agents, Welcome to the idealistic and blemished world of American Politics, Well-intended truths wrapped in lie after lie, gratuitous Latin, sorry to some republicans out there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapifors/pseuds/Lapifors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since that fateful day in their childhood, Blaine and Cooper Anderson have been placed under an unbreakable curse. Cooper can only lie. Blaine can only tell the truth. </p><p>Funnily enough, they both find work in politics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	veritas

**Author's Note:**

> Trying a new writing style and genre! This will be mostly Blaine's POV, as I haven't written anything like that so far. It's a bit short (it's an on-the-spur-of-the-moment sort of fic) and unbeta'd (sorry!), but let me know if you like it. Enjoy! :)
> 
> [Edit: This is on hiatus until further notice when I feel all politically active again.]
> 
> [Edit 2: This story is on indefinite hiatus. Screw politics.]

It begins with a truth and a lie.

And just like everything else, it begins with the intermingling of all the lies around a single truth until it becomes some sort of a rollicking, dubiously gray anecdote to tell in a social event to make yourself appear twice the man or woman you are. Thrice if you happen to befall in heights under the American median (5' 10" for men, 5' 4" for women).

Blaine Anderson is under this median, however what he is short in stature, he makes up in unwavering character. The sort of character that is so nervous that he's accidentally penned his name as 'Baline Andreson' on an apologetic, confessional letter he's sent a second ago to the man he's quite madly in love with. It's a rather beautiful, romantic, yet archaic gesture nowadays since the discovery of the Internet, and later on what would be known as the revolution of the 4G LTE mobile network. Unfortunately for him, the man he's quite madly in love with won't be able to read this conventional means of heartstring tugging, as this man is of the contemporary world and is burdened with texts of an escalating nature involving his candidate, some sort of fruit, and the man that _this man_ is in love with.

Said man is standing on stage in a room full of Ohio Republicans with high-raised heads and higher-raised expectations. This sort of party is for people like them, people who like to lift up their faces to the chandelier so the light reflects off their sparkling jewelry and remodeled necks thanks to a lovely Dr. Asser, MD. Men with tough wrinkled faces, who like hearing the words "integrity of keeping tradition", drinkng champagne and trying to sneak in bits of NFL reviews between bites of hors d'oeuvres. The scene is nothing like Blaine has ever seen, there's barely anyone under the age of 35, excluding the children the families brought in to fill the tables. He can't believe this is where he is, as a key speaker nonetheless. His father sits at the back with a proud disposition.

Being one of the key speakers, Blaine has the once-in-a-lifetime chance to count the number of angry expressions as he taps the mic and a resounding screech of feedback loops in the speakers.

"A-ah! Sorry!" Blaine exclaims into the microphone and that, too, is a decibel away from a scream and has the entire floor in a synchronized cringe. Someone's baby with a campaign sticker on his face starts crying.

"I've been asked by my brother to speak about the Republican Candidate for Governor of Ohio, Mr. Frank Fuchywe. I think I pronounced that right, no one's laughing." Blaine gives himself the one pity laugh within the crowd and spies Cooper by the side of the stage. His older brother puts up a hand only to cut it across his neck and stick out his tongue. The gesture is a teleprompter saying, "Get on with it!" Blaine gulps and then frowns, like a man who's mistaken salt over sugar. His fake taste buds are reeling, and he anxiously ignores the real tingling stomach lurches even when his throat is threatening to go wayside. He tries his very best to lie.

 

If he pulls off this one lie, everything Blaine's worked for will come to fruition, his fate sealed.

 

He parts his mouth—

But before he can speak of such things, it's imperative that we speak of this one.

* * *

 

It's a summery day, pretty as a picture painted by your five-year-old neice, Felicia, and although the sun is hot pink and the grass appears to be tendrils of neon green fire, it's the most beauteous thing in the world that deserves to be put on the fridge, next to picture of the underwater cat living in a castle. The sun on this day, however, is _not_ hot pink but a vision-breaking blast of white that, as mentioned, breaks the vision of a rather cocky twelve-year-old, causing him to misjudge the swing of his bat.

Blaine watches their baseball rocket away from them, ziplining through cable-like vines of a willow tree, careening into their neighbor's window with a momentous sound that Blaine cannot forget. It's like saying the word "impact" out loud. Go on, try it yourself to get the full effect. Im- **pact**. It is a shattering enunciation, a sharp _p_ followed by a knifelike _t_ that has no sense of personal space and has crashed into the other letters in line before it when the word comes to an abrupt stop. This word is perfect for the situation, for the broken window, for Cooper's blank face, for Blaine's panicked one. 

"Coo-Cooper, the window!" Blaine is seven years old and hasn't wet the bed since he was four but is feeling the wiggles. His hands bunch into tiny fists, squeezing the cotton fabric while he frets the bottom of his shirt. Cooper finally lets go of the bat and it makes a clinking thump against the grass in their backyard. Blaine's head snaps to that noise and he looks to his brother; Cooper's usual playful blue eyes lose their shine when his brother shields his squint from the sunlight with his right hand.

Cooper sighs out, "Crud, I missed." His brother drops his gaze, pouting, and kicks a tuft of weeds. This is when Blaine experiences his first outburst.

"You missed by a long shot! You said you could hit the ball over the _witch's_ roof! It didn't! It didn't, it went in through the window and she'll know it's us —"

"Blaine, shut up. Don't worry; I've got a plan to get our ball back." Cooper's strained hiss forces Blaine's lips to clamp down, a feat in itself.

It's because Cooper has a plan.

If there's one life lesson Blaine hasn't learned in school, it's that his older brother's plans never, ever, ever backfire.

 

Their next-door neighbor has a name that's hard to pronounce, Blaine's mother says it's Greco-Italian, Cooper says it's the Devil's name for his disciple. Mrs. Alay-thay-ee-ah-something has always frightened Blaine, despite his attempts to be a courteous boy for his mother. But it's not his fault! She can only see two feet in front of her. The eyes she's got are clouded like someone's poured milk in them, and they're unfocused like she spent too long in the shower, and they're shadowed from the large hooded cape that she wears all the time. Her cape smells. It smells like olive oil and pungent spiciness that wreaks havoc to the air. It's choking in the full brunt of it but when Mrs. A is gone, the air around is minty-fresh and kind of... cool. It's hard for Blaine to say, he's only seven years old.

Her house is a witch's hat, peaked into a swirling tower, and dark even though it's June. Knobbly steps that must be made from the knees of rhinos and columns from the bones of whales keep the hat standing, and it's sheltered by a forest of weeping willows, all curled toward her place. At the rickety doorstep Cooper whispers at Blaine to leave the talking to him, to which Blaine quickly obliges. Cooper's so good at talking, it's crazy how he can say words made to order that the guests always tell their parents, "It's as if the kid knows what I want to hear!" Blaine's not so good at it yet but he thinks he'll learn how to be like Cooper soon so that he'll be making up things like a pro and get the praise too.

Mrs. A's door is ashen, the color of soot which covers the fireplace where Blaine and Cooper roast marshmallows. There's a worn out door knocker at the center of the door. It's an iron lion with a raised paw in the same shade of faded gray as the door. It's seen better days. His older brother picks up the paw and lets the handle drop three times. Before Cooper's dust-smudged hand is lowered, the door jerks toward them like a roused monster and Blaine is startled when his brother's arms instictively wrap around his shoulders. It's when Mrs. A stands before them, tall and stony like a living statue that Cooper drops the hold and briskly fixes himself with a likeable grin. Blaine too tries to get that easy smile, but due to fear it ends up squiggly like the earthworms Cooper made him eat once.

"Hello, boys. You're here about the window." Mrs. A says. Both Blaine and Cooper flinch. Another thing that makes Mrs. A so scary is that she can read minds. Cooper has explained to Blaine once that witches can do stuff like that. Blaine's afraid and his mouth flutters on the verge of an apology, maybe if they fess up she won't turn them into mice and gobble them up.

Cooper butts in before Blaine can speak, "Yes, we saw what happened! The other boys and us, we were in a game of softball, see, it's Jeremy Thorton down by the end of the lane, he's got a swing that always veers left and I told Jeremy, yes I did, that we shouldn't have the game at our field but if you know Jeremy, he's a spoilsport if he doesn't get anything _his_ way and his dad happens to be good friends with mine, so I thought, 'Why not just this once?' and lo and behold, I'm at the pitch, a perfect game so far, no innings for the other team. Jeremy's at bat and I give him an easy one, let the other team have a bit of fun, and he whacks it hard and it happens to fly by into your window. Mrs. A, you should have seen his face, I cannot for the love of me try it myself for the fear that my mouth will clear fall off." His brother's arms wave and spin and zig-zag that Blaine feels like Cooper's playing air traffic controller. Mrs. A's expression has barely changed, save for a slight smile at the left corner of her mouth in small entertainment of the spectable Cooper is pulling about Jeremy.

Jeremy Thorton down by the end of the lane is well-known for his troublemaking that their parents have banned Cooper and Blaine from playing with him, although Blaine always sees Cooper hanging with Jeremy after school. Blaine wonders if half the things about Jeremy are really about Jeremy, or if they're about Cooper. Does Jeremy know that Cooper is saying stuff like this? But Blaine can't worry about it too much because they're in hot water right now and Cooper has a knack for leaving the pot unburned... Maybe Mrs. A will believe him like the other adults and they'll be home scot-free before dinner?

Cooper finishes his story with a chuckle and shoves his hands into his pockets. He trills out the clichéd proverb, "You know, _boys will be boys_."

"Boys will be accounted for the mistakes they make, irregardless of them being boys," is Mrs. A's simple retort and Cooper's smile loses ten watts. "Come on in, children. You can call up your friend Jeremy Thorton on the telphone. If he apologizes to me, I'll give you back the ball." Mrs. A turns to her side to open the passageway into her lair, it's like a witch to trick the kids into entering her house!

Blaine tries to share a glance with Cooper but it's like offering to trade lunches when your lunch isn't very good; no one will meet your gaze and will munch on their dry, better-tasting sandwiches and you're stuck with your dry, worse-tasting one. Cooper surprises Blaine by confidently stepping forth and going in, that Blaine has to follow or else he'll be alone with Mrs. A at the front of the door. When Blaine walks inside, he's surprised. The inside of Mrs. A's lair is spacious and airy and it reminds Blaine of the buildings in the Disney movie _Hercules_ that he likes very much. In fact, Blaine finds that he likes her place very much as well but then remembers, this is what Mrs. A wants him to do! She's a witch, of course she'll enchant her house to make it seem different!

"Come this way, children, it's this room." Mrs. A's voice seems to boom here, while it was so quiet outside. Blaine shuffles behind his brother's careful, explorative feet further into the den. The room Mrs. A leads to is the foyer and Blaine gasps at the uncountable number of glass shards on the carpet. The ball's hit a ceramic vase and that too is on the ground, reminding Blaine of a shell he accidentally stepped on at the beach last summer. His mother had to ask why he was crying and he had said through tears and snot it's because he's ruined such a pretty thing. The lofty window that touches the high ceiling has a gunshot wound near the right pane. "The ball also broke my daughter Justice's vase." Mrs. A announces plainly.

Cooper says nothing and Mrs. A slinks around them, her loose cape rustling mystic whispers as she moves. She's crouching down to check for the ball, and Blaine wants to help but is fixed into a state of shock and can only watch. While looking under a fancy couch, Mrs. A's hair slides out of her hood and Blaine sees how long it is. It's shiny and slick and black like a wash of oil on her tanned skin. It's strangely nice. Mrs. A scoops herself back up into her lowercase _L_ position and then her arms fold out that she's a _Y._ She smiles thinly and dusts off a white baseball with scribbles on it. She holds it out for Cooper to take.

"Your ball, child." Mrs. A states and Cooper dumbly takes it without saying thank you. Blaine's hands feel slippery so he wipes them on his grass-stained shorts but they keep getting moist. "So, will you call your friend, Jeremy Thorton down by the lane to apologize to me?" Mrs. A asks with a smile.

That's when Blaine knows that their cover has been blown. In the first time in their lives, Cooper's plan backfired. It's best to apologize now and be grounded for a month than be changed into a moth forever. This time Cooper is looking at Blaine and Blaine gives his brother a frantic plea to tell the truth. Cooper grimly nods.

"W...well, the t-truth is..." Cooper fumbles and fidgets because this is something he's not used to. He tries his very best to tell the truth.

 

If he pulls off this one truth, everything they've hid will come to light, their fate sealed.

 

"The truth is that Jeremy Thornton down by the lane isn't... in right now. He's hiding from you so calling might not work." Cooper says and shrugs. "But I'll be sure to tell him tomorrow at school for you, Mrs. Ally-thistle. He'll come right by after school, I'll make him!"

Blaine's eyes are bugging out of his head and he can't believe Cooper has just said that. He quickly checks Mrs. A's expression, which scarily enough, hasn't changed.

"Is that so?" Mrs. A asks. Blaine wishes that Cooper would just tell the truth already; Blaine's _dying_ to say it.

"Yes, that is quite so, right Squirt?" Cooper retorts with his usual flair of certainty and grins at Blaine. Blaine's breath catches in his throat when Mrs. A's gaze now falls on him. He doesn't know what to say, Cooper's already dragged him into this hole.

"Y-yeah, it's so." Blaine's stomach tightens and his voice is warbled. He feels awful after the words leave his mouth but Mrs. A is nodding and smiling so maybe it's okay? Has he said the right thing? Blaine keeps telling himself that he did until Mrs. A drops down to their height and stares at Cooper in the eyes, her milky-weird ones boring into his wide-eyed blues. One of her hands cup the side of Cooper's face.

" _Blandae mendacia linguae._ Everything you say from your clever tongue sounds so honest. But your mind..." Her spindly finger traces Cooper's temple to the middle of his forehead. Mrs. A tuts. 

"Your mind delights in playing tricks, my dear. And as you said, _boys will be boys_. What sort of benevolent entity am I if I take the fun from a little boy?" Mrs. A's finger slowly draws downward as she's talking until it reaches the terrified line of Cooper's lips. She taps them once.

There's a rose-colored flash of bright light that almost looks like it came from the hot pink sun in your five-year-old neice Felicia's drawing. Have you put it on your fridge yet? She'll be upset if you don't, she spent a good half-day drawing it and she'll begin to think of you as her least favorite aunt/uncle.

Blaine puts his hands up and twists away from the glare, which disappears as fast as when you flick off the light in your room. He reopens them to see Cooper slumped to the ground, unconscious. Mrs. A is looking over him serenely and slowly turns her head to Blaine.

Before he can react, she's in front of him.

"What did you want to say? You looked like the words were on the tip of your tongue, dear." Mrs. A remarks and Blaine shivers when her cold hand touches his cheek. "Well?"

 "I'm sorry," Blaine whispers, "I didn't mean to, I'm not good at—I'll never lie again," Blaine stammers, wanting to run but her eyes have his legs turned to stone. He's wrong, she isn't a witch. She's a Medusa.

Her crooked index finger pushes against his top lip and she smiles softly. Up close Mrs. A doesn't look very old, she's like beautiful and wise queen in the fairy tales Blaine's mom reads to him. Her creases are placed in the right places by an expert placing person, the lines fold underneath her eyes and copy each smile so that she looks extra happy. She doesn't look intimidating at all. In the grove of her dark hood and hair, her face is warm and her murky eyes are spinning, the white circling like water going down the drain. Her eyes, now freed from the pale film, are golden-red like a polished penny. But then her eyebrows drop and her eyes squeeze smaller. Blaine thinks that she looks sad, but that would be silly.

Mrs. A whispers, " _Probitas laudatur et alget._ "

Blaine's sight explodes behind fireworks and his entire body is hot like he's got a fever. Mrs. A stands up as he crumbles, looking down at him, her hair flying about away from her face, the black oil strands whipping into the air while everything burns around him.

 

Blaine wakes up suddenly to the sound of a flock of birds taking flight. In the rush of wing beats, Blaine jolts up and sees that he's been lying on a couch. This isn't his living room, it's Mrs. A's. Panicked, Blaine jumps off the couch and lands on the floor. He draws in his hands close to his chest after he hits the ground but when he peers at his fingers, there's no glass. The floor's been cleaned off, no shards of windows or vases are to be found. Cooper is still sleeping on the other couch, snoring loudly that Blaine almost misses the call of his name.

"Blaine?"

It's his mom and Blaine tilts his head to see her at the hallway, Mrs. A next to her. "Blaine, come over here, there's something you have to explain to me." His mom's order tugs Blaine to his feet and he shamefully approaches the two women, head hanging. His mom sighs and puts her hand on her cheek and Mrs. A silently smiles in her trademark watchful way. He feels like he has to go pee. His mom's hands rest on his shoulders and she gently asks how he's feeling. Blaine is yucky and gross but since his mom and Mrs. A is there, he should say something nice.

"I feel yucky and I got to go pee," Blaine blurts out to everyone's surprise, even him. He automatically goes to put his hands over his mouth.  _I didn't mean to say that!_

"Blaine!" His mother shrieks his name in thorough, cheek-reddening embarrassment. She quickly turns to apologize, "Mrs. Aletheia, I'm sorry about the _rudeness_ (here she gives Blaine a glare that has his knees shaking) about my son. Blaine can say things without thinking."

Mrs. Aletheia shakes her head and laughs, "No, no, no. That's alright. He's honest." Blaine has a shiver through his spine when she says that.

"What's going on?" Cooper asks, covering a yawn with his hands as he join them. He stops when he sees Mrs. Aletheia and hides behind Blaine and his mother, who is confused by her other son's behavior.

"I should be asking you the same thing! Are you okay?" Their mother sighs in exasperation. "What happened?"

"Yes," Cooper says immediately, "nothing happened."

"Cooper and I accidentally broke Mrs. Alay-they-ah's window with a ball and it also hit a vase! She's a _witch_ , Mom!" Blaine shouts and his brother swiftly punches him in the back. "Ow! Cooper just punched me!" Blaine squeals and his mother's eyes get round and angry. Blaine can't help himself, the story is spilling like water in a leaking balloon, sooner or later it'll pop and make a mess.

Cooper's by the wall already and scoffs. "I did no such thing, Squirt. Mom, Blaine's probably confusing a dream with reality again."

Mrs. Anderson makes a warning cough in her throat and both boys straighten up. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Aletheia, my two boys have been causing you trouble. And Blaine, you should know better! Honestly! We're going home." Mrs. Anderson grabs Blaine by the ear and she drags him out, Cooper leisurely in tow. As Blaine is backing out of Mrs. A's lair, he glimpses the foyer window again—it's fixed. Mrs. A waves once to signify a farewell.

"Blaine, did you have to make such an obvious lie?" Mrs. Anderson berates him when they get home. Blaine's told to write an apology letter to Mrs. A for calling her a witch. 

"I'm not lying!" Blaine exclaims and he's on the verge of tears. He's not and no one will believe him. 

"He's lying." Cooper spits out and goes back to leaning on the wall. 

Mrs. Anderson sighs and holds her hand out to gesture at Cooper. "Why can't you be like your brother?"  


Blaine's a water balloon that's been punctured. He starts to bawl and wipe at his eyes, upset that the things he's saying are something else, because as you know, there is nothing more worth crying about than someone getting you completely wrong and thinking you've done something wrong when you're entirely right and you've done something right. 

Plus, Blaine is seven years old. He's not good at _expressing himself_ , he doesn't have the vocabulary yet. 

His mom sighs again and crouches down to give him a hug. She smoothes over his back, quieting his sobs. "Blaine, I'm sorry, but honey, you can't lie like that!" She chastises him. 

I'm n-no-not lying... I'm not," Blaine whimpers and his mom shakes her head at him, nonplussed that her son is continuing the charade. 

"Cooper, take Blaine upstairs to wash. Come down to dinner only when Blaine's stopped." Mrs. Anderson commands and her oldest son pushes himself off the wall and wraps an arm around his younger brother's shoulder, bringing him in a side-hug while they climb up the stairs. 

Blaine's still sniffling as they ascend the steps and he says to Cooper, "You know it's your fault, right? Aren't you sorry?" 

Cooper sighs and darts his eyes to the floor. "I'm not sorry at all." 

A wise man in history once said, "All the truth in the world adds up to one big lie." The man in history also said, "Folk music is a bunch of fat people." And it's true, the first one, the second one you can't be sure of because it's the new indie thing to go a bit freaky folk and we can't all predict body types of present and future folk musicians. In essence, all the truth in the world can add up to one big lie, as the truth is a matter of perception. The sense of what's true and what's false is so fragile, it takes only a certain, well-placed impact to knock your compass from pointing north. If you believe in a lie long enough, to you it becomes a truth, and if you deny a truth long enough, to you it becomes a lie. Right and wrong is fickle, just like how people are fickle, and that's how it's supposed to end. 

But this story about a rather pitiable young man with a good heart and a rather enviable older-young man with a bad mind doesn't stop here. 

It stops when one of them pays for his accumulated mistakes. 


End file.
